Every Day
by Honour Society
Summary: The story of Blair's unborn baby. For every girl who's ever been pregnant or for every one who already has her baby names picked out. The b-word is used and some heavy issues pro-life, pro-choice are touched upon. Reviews are welcome, but only CC. Thanks.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Gossip Girl _or Chanel.

**Author's Note: **I've been wanting to do this sort of a OneShot ever since "The Thin Line.." aired. So here it is. It's not really pro-choice or pro-life, though those issues are touched upon.

**Every Day **

_-A _Gossip Girl _OneShot by Honour Society-_

Day One

Your life is so dramatic. With Nate and Chuck and Serena and Chuck and Nate, oh, and that boy who has a doll named Cedric. I understand why you think I could never be a part of it, I do. Maybe you'll keep me? Pretend that I'm your baby sister, instead of your daughter? Maybe. Hopefully.

Day Three

Serena did a nice thing for you, a super nice thing and you repay her by snapping at her and making her out to be a pregnant fool? Why Blair, that fool is _you_. Can't you see the signs? You're moodier than ever, hormonal and bloated. You're not "fat," like you hiss at yourself in the steamy bathroom mirror. You're not. You are pregnant, pregnant with me.

Day Four

No one is laughing with you now. No one is begging to go shopping with you and rip off thousand-dollar price tags, so they can wear the newest Chanel sheath to that ball at the Met on Sunday. No one is asking you if you want to go for venti cappuccinos at Starbucks, then leave half-full cups on the table, so that cute barista has an excuse to talk to you. _No one_. You know why? They're all off doing these things with pretty Jenny Humphrey, that's why. Pretty Jenny who stabbed you in the front, like true friends do.

Day Seven

"I'm not pregnant," you sneer at Chuck Bass, as he stomps on his cigarette. Thank you Chuck. Thanks for caring about me. Blair? What about you? Mom? Do you care? I know the answer, really, its just not quite the answer I want to hear. I suppose most teenage pregnancies are like this, right? At least in New York City. If you cared, you would have taken the test Serena gave you way back when. Found out the truth instead of making up your own reality.

Day Twelve

You and Serena are a force united, best friends until the end. I wish I could join the force. The three of us would have so much fun. Serena would be a good godmother. I know she would. She could be my "fun aunt," taking me to movies that you won't let me see, going with me for my first mani/pedi and buying me McDonald's Happy Meals.

The two of you breeze through the halls of Constance Billard School for Girls and people look twice because you're smiling jauntily and the red ribbon you use as a headband, which is always perfectly in place, is very crooked. You don't care. Well, only a little. Care about me, B…

Day Fifteen

Days turn into nights and still no recognition of me or my life. I oft wonder if you do, in fact, know of me, yet choose to ignore my growth, little by little, inside of you.

Day Twenty-seven

Sobriety is good, Blair, please verbally thank Serena for keeping you sober as I cannot, but I use my mind to tell Serena Yes. Yes, I am alive. No more corkscrews and spritzers, martinis and Manhattans, eggnog or any of the like. Say "no," I tell you. As soon as Serena leaves the hotel bar, after drinking a glass of water, you order a shot of "whatever's expensive," and down it in one gulp.

Day Forty-one

Today you notice me. You notice your swollen abdomen and glowing complexion. The latter you praise, the earlier you trot off to the washroom to deal with. _All done_, you think, adjusting your hair pin, but then thinking _what the hey!_ and leaving your curls wild and unpredictable. You change into an empire-waisted dress, even though you just read _Elle_ magazine last night and it said that empire waists are completely, utterly, behind belief _O-U-T_ out.

"_Elle_ just reports the trends, darling," you grin at a particularly snot-nosed and daring freshman named Lizzie, "_I create them_."

Day Fifty

You don't make the same mistake as stupid Serena, when you finally realize what's going on. Subtly, without ever letting Eleanor hear you, lest she wake up and tell you go to back to sleep and "get your beauty rest, Lord knows you need it." Flick. On goes the PowerBook, you Google search things like "free pregnancy tests." When you finally sort through all the junk and perverted Internet stuff, you find the right site.

It delivers free pregnancy tests to "Inner-city New York teens." _I'm "in the city,"_ you think defensively, typing in your address and name (Jane Doe) in the box. Even if one of Constance or St. Jude's gossip-hungry pupils spies the package, containing one pregnancy test, you'll just simply explain that it's junk mail.

"Stupid junk mail," you sing to the computer wallpaper, a silly image of you and Serena posing in front of a fountain, pouting and wearing backless Eleanor Waldorf originals.

Day Fifty-Five

The package comes, the courier looks aghast when he delivers_ that package._ The one for teenagers from the Bronx, who have no hopes of finishing high school (sometimes even middle school) to Blair Cornelia Waldorf, of the New York Waldorfs.

"Thank you ever so much." Your voice is sickly sweet and takes on some kind of British/Yankee accent as you take the package and other assorted mail from his tight grip.

Courier-man still eyes _the package_. The package that is now in your comfortable grasp.

"Oh?" your eyebrow quirks skywards, "Junk mail." The package is now flying across the room and it lands with a distinct _bang!_ on the hardwood floor. The courier relaxes. I can almost read his thoughts: _Oh. Probably some idiotic teenager prank. Ha. And I_ actually thought _that thee Blair Waldorf was pregnant! Ha!_

Day Fifty-Six

By the day after _the package_ arrives, it has migrated from the courier's sweaty palms, to the Junk Mail pile under the Chippendale desk in the hallway, to the recycling bin, all the way up the winding staircase and into Blair's lair. Upon her desk, after all the college brochures, Stella McCartney lingerie and hair accessories have been shoved over, it sits. Taunting you. Taunting me.

"I'm ready for this test to be negative," you hum. This is your mantra. As you slowly, ever-so-slowly, make your way to the desk, you repeat it, again and again.

"I'm ready for this test to be negative!"

* * *

The box feels heavier and lighter than you expected, all at the same time. Lies, lies, lies. They swirl around your crowded head, bumping into Chuck Bass' kiss and Nate Archibald's fist and Serena's grin and Jenny's scowl and Eleanor's pursed lips. So much clutter. If only you would clean it up. 

Sitting on the toilet with a white stick under you, stupidity becomes you. _Stupid_, you think, though those dreaded words never cross your lips, _I am SO stupid. Aren't I?_ Wow, I think you're talking to me. To me!

_You're not stupid_, I think back, _just a pretty teenage girl who _did_ something stupid that she wasn't ready for._

Day Fifty-Seven

_Juno_. You saw that movie a couple weeks ago. With Serena. Remember the scene where Juno, this pregnant teenager, not unlike yourself, tells her father and stepmother she's pregnant? Remember? Just act. _Pretend_ that you're Blair Waldorf, socialite and soon-to-be Yale student, who just so happens to be pregnant.

"Mother, have a seat." You gesture towards the nicely upholstered couch and matching loveseat, both bought during a summer getaway in Connecticut.

Eleanor Waldorf's interest has been piqued, but her feet stay firmly where they are.

"Or not. Um, I don't really know how to say this-"

"I do," interrupts Eleanor, "I do. You have an eating disorder and are requesting mother-daughter therapy. I understand and I accept. I'll pencil in appointments for us with Dr. Milo Thursdays from six to seven. Are we done?"

"That's not what I was going to say, but, whatever. _Therapy is something we'll probably need anyway_. I'm just going to go right out and say it."

"Oh my god, did Nathaniel finally propose?"

"NO, MOTHER! NATE DID NOT PROPOSE. Because," you pause, unsure, "he might be the father of my child. 'Might,' being the key word there."

Day Sixty

After staying home from school ever since the therapy incident, you're finally ready to face your demons in the form of an abortion clinic. The little beige building does not look so evil on the outside, not to you, not to me. Inside, I can imagine dead little babies scattered on the floor. Forgotten baggage.

You're flanked on one side by Eleanor Waldorf, and on the other, by Serena van der Woodsen. The three of you are wearing sunglasses, all EW Originals.

"If only these six hundred dollar designer sunglasses could cover up my shame and resentment," you joke, in spite of yourself.

Day Sixty-One

Yesterday was hard for you. And me. Our doctor, Dr. Lily Ramirez, she was nice. Kind. Sweet. Pretty hair. I find it hard to believe that she was ready and willing to suck the life out of me. And you. Almost. Except for that twinkle in her eye. The twinkle of a mad man. You saw it, too. Maybe that's why you chose to keep me in here. In this puddle of warmth and love.

Or maybe it was the stares you know you'll get no matter what you do. _Baby killer_, those stares will say if you make me leave this nice place. _Pregnant bitch_, they'll say if you keep me.

I love you, pregnant bitch.

Day Two hundred sixty-eight

On November seventeenth, two thousand and eight, I am born. Leave it to you to have picked a name all out for me, even before you knew you would get the unlucky label of teenage mom. I, Meredith Cornelia Waldorf, weigh two pounds, one ounce, so I must stay here in this private medical center, until I put on four more pounds.

Quite funny, I think, that while I am desperately trying to gain weight, Blair is doing whatever she can to lose it. Funny.

"Mer," your eyes are tear-filled and rimmed with red, as if Rimmel came out with a new red eye liner. Maybe they call it _Teen Mother_, as you seem to have done a lot of crying in these 268 days we've spent together."I love you. I just can't keep you."

"I understand," I say back, of course I don't understand, nor do I really _say_ this. It comes out as a high-pitched cry. You know what I mean, though. I can tell as you hand me off to my grandmother, who will hand me off to a social worker.

"You'll come back to me, mama," I cry, "I know you will."


End file.
